Making up questions
to fog the edge of our clarity.
We journey along, colourful,
undressing, resting little, opposite
of taking a stance, a stand against
another’s point of view.
Would it flash when we crack, and
would the wind take us six beats closer
to our death, offer some refuge from
the tedium tick of reiterating rituals
fueled by habit? Acclimatized. But not up here,
on the dry dry plain, freed of proselytizing
and rivers fat with this food, that
cup of water. We have been warm and now we are shot,
unable to don our dilemmas well. There is no
easy-to-open window or entourage
to hook us up with a ladder,
no place under the bed or in the linen closet to hide
and give hope in spite of the ensuing horror.
We leap to explore, though inertia is always the obstacle.
Problems seduce like textures, filling the talk. I saw it all
in some gum stuck under the table,
as we dined on our ripened suffering, and our veracity ended
in another fool-hardy freeze.
Fundamentally, we are our own culture.
We are crazed as lit candles by the vent.
We can’t love with logic, be hairy-legged sages, casual
at the fork in the road, conjuring a capacity for true meditation.
We can’t be nurtured with formalities
or play-acting acts of kindness.
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Writing Raw June Issue” June 2015
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry,” Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.